I'm the pariah of the bus stop. All the other moms have identical soccer mom bobs and cute little jogging suits in colors that actually match. They wear nail polish and lipstick. Some of them paint their eyebrows on, but of course I stay as far away from them as possible. I've decided that my scary Zombie House will have lots of zombies with painted on, terminally surprised zombiebrows. Because THAT's scary, mon.
Er... yeah. Anyway, I'm the odd one out, with my "I do bad things" rhinestone shirt and my paint-covered capris. I still wear my hair the same way I did in college: long. I do not do the cute little bob; it makes my face look like Pretty Polly Pumpkinhead. And that, my friends is bad with a capital BAAAAA.
The other moms were standing around earlier this week, recommending books to each other. "Finally!" I thought. "I can recommend some killer books! This is my big chance to establish myself as the kewl person at the bus stop." Until I noticed that the titles they were mentioning were the kind of titles that involve men in kilts, lots of bulging muscles, and storking. Lots and lots of storking. I, on the other hand, am reading a book called "Dead Girls" by Richard Calder, which I thought was going to be a zombie kind of story, perfect for October, but is instead a really pervy book about this virus that turns girls into killer vampiric clockwork nanotech dolls. Which is still kinda cool, except that it's cool in a way that makes me cock my head to one side and make confused doggie noises.
ARF? Translation: What the f*ck? Reason translation is needed: I have three children. Lucky for me, they don't realize that dogs say WTF all the time.
So now I'm resigned. I was thinking that I should just embrace the weirdness. Like, next week, I think I might read aloud from my WIP. Maybe the scene in which the main character steals a middle finger by mistake. Because, you know, I'm just not weird enough yet.